Fabrication
by Amiphobic
Summary: Sometimes the truths and lies we tell aren't that different from each other at all. Sometimes it's just a matter of perspective. Two-shot.
1. Part I

**_Chloe_**

_Truth_

Beca Mitchell is dangerous. Dangerous with that unreadable expression, that hunched posture, those sarcastic and biting comments. She's dangerous like a ticking bomb, a sharp knife, a blazing inferno. It's no wonder you find yourself inexplicably drawn to her, like a crowd to a tragedy.

When she gives that punch in the air with her triumphant smirk, you know she'll be the end of you. And it doesn't bother you at all. In fact you find yourself eager for the finale, if only for the fireworks and gasps of awe.

Then she kisses him.

The applause dies down.

* * *

_Lie_

"Aren't you happy we won?"

Aubrey's voice punctuates your thoughts. Her face is glowing as she basks in the victory, and you smile for her.

"I'm happy."

* * *

_Truth_

She's small, one of the shortest adults you've ever met, and you have to look hard to see the figure shrouded by shadows. Dare you think of her as delicate? Her fingers, long and thin, look like twigs, easily snapped, and her posture is slightly hunched as if one step away from stumbling to the ground. But her gaze is steely, full of ice, hiding away from the world.

The honest truth is that you don't know what to think about her.

The honest truth is that your heart knows already.

* * *

_Lie_

You enjoy playing with her hair, the soft chestnut brown locks slipping through your fingers. When she leans on your shoulder, you can't help but nuzzle your face into the back of her neck, inhaling her scent, the fruity shampoo in contrast with her familiar light perfume. Her voice is low as she breathily asks you a question and you hum in response.

Yes, you think she and Jesse make a great couple.

You bleed from your mouth, a black liquid as thick and dark as your lie.

* * *

_Truth_

Perfect? No, she's far from that. But she's beautiful in a way that words can't describe. Her eyes are an enigma; they're a light shade of grey that nuances into blues and greens depending on her mood and the lighting. It's the most interesting and invoking part of her. Her skin is surprisingly covered with a smatter of scars and your eyes, inquisitive, trace over them. She tells you the story behind each fading wound in a hushed voice, quiet as a secret, deadly like a heartbeat.

You know that every word brings you closer to the edge; if you take one more step, you'll fall. But the truth is…

You don't mind falling.

Not at all.

* * *

_Lie_

It's a dark day when you accidentally kiss her (you're not sure it counts). The two of you huddle on her bed, side by side, in front of her laptop as you watch a movie (the title is one that you can't remember now). When she asks about something that's going on in the film, you turn your head to answer her and your lips graze by her cheek, a shock running down your jaw. Something about that causes a hitch in your breath.

But she's as calm as ever, a gentle brook carrying you downstream.

"Something wrong?" Her eyes are a murky grey.

You shake your head; no.

A deception that you can't rescind.

* * *

_Truth_

There's something about the reluctant enthusiasm that she displays around you that makes you want to bring it back over and over again. If she's the flame, then you're the one kindling the fire, coaxing her to life.

Or maybe that's only your fantasy.

In actuality, you're just her friend, aren't you?

Your nails are jagged, bitten down all the way, and the reality is probably reflected there.

* * *

_Lie_

"Want to come watch the game with us?"

Her eyes are a hopeful blue today, a sharp color that will no doubt lacerate you.

"I'm busy."

But you're a counterfeit. How can you tell her that every time you see her with him it demolishes (perhaps obliterates) you? She's noxious, contaminating everything you thought you knew; who are you anymore?

"Sorry."

But you're not.

* * *

_Truth_

She shares pieces of herself with you, fragments that are dappled with pure moonlight, and you become greedy for more. She shares her music with you, an intimate gesture, isn't it? But no, she shares it with others too. What does she save for you then?

Perhaps nothing.

You want her to tell you something, something true, that will be for your ears only.

* * *

_Lie_

When the opportunity for a great internship arises, you jump at it. (The truth is: the internship isn't _that _great.) It's up in Michigan and far away from everything you've ever known. Beca, oblivious, congratulates you, warmly and genuinely. Aubrey, perceptive, glares at you accusatorily over Skype.

Her voice is abrasive, coarse, confronting.

Your voice, timorous, shakes.

"I really want this."

* * *

_Truth_

The night before your departure to Detroit the Bellas throw you a farewell party. The colored streamers draping everywhere are particularly poignant in your mind. As each of the Bellas comes to say a little goodbye to you personally, you smile, your chest heated with affection. Last is Beca, who only approaches you long after the festivities have died down.

"Let me take you to the airport tomorrow," she says seriously. The way she says it makes you feel a debility you've never experienced before.

"I'd like that."

You stay overnight in her room, taking Kimmy Jin's vacant bed (she's away on a three week vacation in South Korea). Beca discusses the possibility of maybe visiting you in Michigan or for you to come back to Georgia once in awhile.

"I'd like that." Well, that's what you mean to say.

But it comes out wrong.

"I love you."

* * *

_Lie_

What follows is the most heart wrenching and terrible silence you've ever encountered. If there were some way to nullify your words, a retraction, a joke, an apology, you would.

"I have to think about it," she whispers finally, laconic as always.

You know quite a few words, many are beautifully descriptive and vivid, but only one seems appropriate for this instance.

"Okay."

And you tell yourself it will be.

* * *

_Truth_

The ride to the airport the next day is tense and quiet. You look out the window, watching everything pass you by. Half of you wants to beg for absolution for your infraction. The other half is relieved that you've said your piece. When you reach the outside of your terminal, her hand lands on your wrist, pulling you back.

You see it in her eyes before she says it.

"I'm not in love with you."

Her eyes are a remorseful green. It reminds you of a forest, the smell of pine, the sound of birds in early morning.

"I'll miss you," you reply instead and exit the vehicle.

* * *

_Lie_

On the plane, just as it's about to go into taxi, you check your phone. There are two messages, one from Aubrey and another from Beca. Aubrey's can wait until you land in Michigan. Maybe Beca's can too, but your fingers, stiff, decide otherwise.

"_I am in love with you" is the far worse lie, Chloe. I hope you understand._

It's perfectly typed and punctuated; she must have thought this over, turning it in her head, nitpicking until it was flawless.

But you're leaving Georgia.

You can forget her now.

A fabrication so blatant it's laughable.

* * *

_Truth_

It takes a few months to get settled into the new city, but you'd like to think you're doing quite well. The internship has been progressing nicely and you've made some new friends (not as great as your old ones, but not as demanding as them either). You keep in regular contact with Aubrey, even planning a visit to New York in the near future, but you don't have the heart to text Beca (and vice versa apparently).

After being separated from Aubrey from so long, you're worried that maybe your dynamic with her will have changed. And you're right. But it's not a bad change. It's simply different.

You might even like it.

* * *

_Lie_

Aubrey is clearly at home in the city, navigating the crowded streets with ease, her arm looped through yours. She becomes alive with the surrounding pandemonium, her eyes are lively and dancing, and her hair is streaked with darker shades of blonde, creating an illusion of fullness. Even with all the noise and busyness, you feel at home, maybe not in New York, no, but with Aubrey, yes.

Aubrey asks if you're seeing anyone, in a tone so casual it can only be her feigning interest.

You say no and that you're glad to be alone for now.

* * *

_Truth_

With too much tequila and too much adrenaline running through your body at the night club, you make an interesting mistake.

It's not entirely innocent, she's grinding against your leg in the most elegant way you've ever seen possible, but you don't mean anything by it. She spins and you bring her back towards you with a little too much momentum. Her lips bump into yours and the two of you pause, hot and heaving breaths fogging the air. There's a split second where you imagine it's Beca you're dancing with, but that shatters quickly; Aubrey is taller, looking down at you, and stronger, holding you steady.

She leans down to kiss you and you meet her halfway. For such a dominant personality, Aubrey's rather passive, letting you control the kiss, your hand gripping the side of her face.

"This isn't fair to you," you whisper, the bass of the music drowning out your words.

Aubrey rests her forehead against yours, a sturdy constant.

* * *

_Lie_

During the day she likes brushing your hair, a random number of strokes on each side. It's a new development, but not an unpleasant one. Along with the new is the old: the reminiscence of past times in college, the Scrabble competitions, the jokes. Perhaps your favorite part is late in the night when the city is illuminated with pinpricks of light and Aubrey decides to read to you.

It's her voice, familiar and expressive, and it lulls you into a sense of safety. The outside cacophony dies away as she spins tales out of nowhere. In the middle of one such night, she sets the book down and looks at you hard.

"Are you still hung up over Beca?"

The subject that the two of you have painfully danced around for the better part of a week has finally been brought up.

"I'm getting over it."

* * *

_Truth_

She doesn't push it, which is so uncharacteristic of her that you're filled with trepidation as your trip nears to a close. And on the last night she finally speaks her mind.

"Stay with me." It's a terse statement, one that your brain can't fully process.

"What?"

She doesn't look so sure anymore, but looking down at you she repeats, "Stay here in New York with me."

"I can't, Aubrey," but surely she must know this.

You can see a sort of desperation in her expression, but she lowers her head, breaking eye contact.

* * *

_Lie_

Interestingly you find your phone buried under piles and piles of clothes as you're packing. When you turn it on, you find two missed calls from Beca and one voicemail. Intrigued, you hold your phone up to your ear.

"_Hey Chloe, it's Beca. I'm outside your place and I know what you said, but hear me out, okay?_ _Call me back._"

A growing suspicion takes residence in your head and you confront Aubrey about it. She looks at you, forlorn.

"She called me the other day," she finally admits. "Asked if I knew where you were."

"What did you say?"

Aubrey's blonde hair cascades down one side, shielding her from your anger. "I said I didn't know."

"Is that it?" You're ready to deflate if it's something so trivial.

Maybe your willingness to give up so easily sparks something in her, "You were in the shower when she texted you. I texted back saying you didn't want to talk to her."

"Why would you meddle like that?"

"You're the only good thing that's ever happened to me," she draws herself tall, as if she hasn't done something reprehensible. "Can you blame me?"

"I'm not an angel either, Bree," you say. "But at least I'm not a liar."

Amusingly, you realize that's a lie.

* * *

_Truth_

You text Beca back on your way to the airport.

_Look under the plant pot on the window sill. My key is there. I'm in NY, flying back, will meet you in a few hours._

Your heart is pounding for the duration of the flight home. You think of her huddling outside your condo, cold and alone. Mostly you wonder what she has to say to you – if she'll lie to you and if she ever has – and what you'll say to her – if you'll lie to her and if you ever have. Yes to all, you think. And now, reflecting, you don't blame Aubrey. Not at all.

You love Aubrey, yes, but at the same time you _don't_. There isn't a single person in the world who knows you better than she does, but at the same time she still doesn't always understand you. Certainly she's your best friend and what you've felt for her has never changed. But to you love is so consuming that it renders everything else obsolete; to you love is so demanding that you struggle to express it in words. Is this what Beca meant?

That _I love you_ is the worse lie?

You think it's also the worse truth.

But maybe the two aren't that far apart.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading, you're a rock star. Leave a review if it so suits you. Part 2 will be up in a few days hopefully. Cheers.  
**


	2. Part II

**_Beca_**

_Truth_

Chloe Beale is dangerous. It's irrefutable. She's dangerous with that cheerful expression, that open stance, those generous and caring assurances. She's dangerous like a sugary smile, a tight hug, a flickering candle and it's no wonder you find yourself bizarrely drawn to her, like a moth to flame. The pull is strong, but you steel yourself against it. You've had enough of intense; you'll settle for moderate.

You choose the easy path, the one you think will lead to the least heartbreak and you wait for when it'll inevitably fall through. In your experience, it always does. But you look at Jesse, and this one time, you kind of hope it doesn't.

* * *

_Lie_

He's easy to understand, no mystery clouding your sight; when he says he loves you, you know without a doubt that he means it so completely and wholly (and that he means forever). Unfortunately for him, you've never been in touch with your emotions.

But still, you tell him you love him back and no, it's not true, but yes, you could get there some day.

* * *

_Truth_

Things with him are nice. It's cute and it makes you feel vaguely fuzzy on the inside like flashes of brightness in your dim backlit stage. But you kind of expected more. You expected a hot spotlight burning your skin, bringing you out of the dark.

You watch other people, caught up in their bliss, and you're oddly wistful. Cynthia Rose closes her eyes, in her own little world, as she writes lyrics, the corners of Chloe's eyes crinkle as she listens to your mash-ups, and Jesse wears a look of pure adoration when he sees you.

You want that.

Is that so crazy?

* * *

_Lie_

He asks if you're happy quite frequently. In fact, a lot of people do. It's one of those questions that you're never sure how to answer. If you say yes, it'll sound dishonest, but who says no to that?

You're simply not a happy person; it's not in your nature and it's not necessarily something you know how to be.

So you always settle for a noncommittal shrug.

* * *

_Truth_

There's little things about him that intrigue you, the thin veins running down his biceps to his hands, the serenity of his face when he's snoozing (you wonder what he dreams of), the way his fingers curl slightly as he rests them on the keyboard.

You know that you're less intriguing and more bewildering for him. He doesn't understand why you sometimes draw the curtains closed and lie down in absoluteness silence, not unconscious, but not awake. He doesn't understand why you pull your headphones over your ears in the middle of a group outing, drowning out the overtop-cheerful voices and faces. He doesn't understand why you zone out in the middle of a movie, only coming back when he physically shakes you.

But in the end he makes you feel more normal than you can ever recall feeling.

* * *

_Lie_

You've always had a thing for her, but nothing like what you feel for Jesse, stronger and yet weaker. She's an intimate person, her fingers dance over your skin (the inside of your wrist, the crook of your elbow, the blades of your back, the side of your ankle, the sharp top of your knees, the bones of your hips) and it feels like she's prying at the bars of your defense.

The floodgates swing open eventually and words rush out of your mouth, not all of them true, but not all of them false.

"Seventh grade, football to the head," you say, her eyes fixated on a light scar on your chin. In actuality it's from that time you tripped in the middle school stairwell (you're a clumsy sort of person), but your new and improved version sits better on your tongue.

* * *

_Truth_

Her gaze falls to your forearm, three parallel cuts, faded almost entirely after two years. These are the ones you should be lying about, the ones that you've never explained fully to anyone (not your parents, not Jesse).

"I was in a dark place," you tell her instead, and her eyes flicker once but she still looks at you the same.

She doesn't say anything and it feels _good._

* * *

_Lie_

"I accepted an internship offer in Michigan."

You look at her, surprised, but it quickly morphs into something else (something that aches and pines). A mask falls into place over your face, a smile or a lie.

What can you say really? You don't have the power to make her stay.

"I'm happy for you."

* * *

_Truth_

On the last night before her departure, the rain falls like petals in the wind and so do her words.

"I love you."

You'd truthfully never given it much thought until now. It shouldn't be a comparison, but God, it is.

He has an infuriating persistence that you can't help admire. She has a total disregard for personal space that irritates and enchants you alternatingly. When he sings, his voice is sweet and melodic, plucking notes and harmonies from thin air. When she sings, her voice soars in gentle and tender tones, the purest sound you've ever heard. He's handsome, his eyes are playful and kind, his smile is one with just the right amount of boyish charm, and his lips are rough in the most appealing way. On the other hand she's simply stunning, her eyes are patient but scorching, her smile lights up her whole face, and you imagine (not that you dwell on this) her lips are soft to the touch.

But Jesse is simple, something you can navigate; Chloe's a labyrinth, an intricacy so complex you're left wandering for days. He wants you to be happy and to make him happy, but what does she want from you? (Dare you think she just wants you as you are?)

* * *

_Lie_

For the first time her eyes are closed off and you can't discern anything from her expression or posture. Will your answer even change anything?

You don't love her, no, but you can imagine getting lost in her so easily. Too easily.

You're already scarred, already broken, so you let her go.

* * *

_Truth_

She disappears into the airport, swallowed up by the crowd. Gone.

Even though you're technically not supposed to, you get out of the car, leaving it parked in the drop off zone. Leaning against the hood, you take out your phone and check your messages. There's one from Jesse insisting you come over to watch a movie (Shawshank Redemption, which, to his horror, you've never managed to finish) and one from your dad insisting you join him for dinner with the step-monster.

Maybe it's the messages that make you double back. You're not letting _her _go, she's letting _you_ go. She could've stayed and pursued you, tried to convince you like everyone else in your life. But instead she's walking away and it makes you think.

Your fingers tremble as you type a quick message to her, something you didn't even know you'd stored away inside, locked behind all the safety catches. No, you're not in love with her, but yes, there's something.

* * *

_Lie_

Upon arriving back at your dorm, you're surprised to see Jesse already there, lounging at your desk, scrolling through his phone.

"Hey," he looks up at you immediately, dropping everything else. "You okay?"

You're many things right now, among them you could say you're nervous, or you could say you're confused (so much more than just confused), or you could even say you're exhausted. Out of all the things you are, _okay_ is not something that applies at this moment.

For a split second you debate telling him the truth, that the sky is grey, that your heart is heavy, that you feel blue; every fucking cliché you can think of. But his face is set tight and worrying, lines creasing his forehead. (If you told him, would he understand?)

"Yeah," and it's worth it when a relieved smile spreads across his face, smoothing out his concern.

* * *

_Truth_

It's months later (years it feels like) that you find yourself at Chloe's place sans the woman herself. Despite her initial refusal to see you, something compels you to stay anyway. Something pushes you to insist, to impose, both of which are things you've always hated. Your gaze sweeps over the many bookshelves lining her walls and you fall asleep to that sight.

You're woken up in the morning by smooth lips (nothing like you dreamed of, but somehow more than enough) pressed against your temple, your mind still groggy with sleep. She whispers something you don't quite catch. Slowly your eyelids crack open and she kisses your forehead, as if unable to help it.

"Hey there stranger," you mumble, the words obscured by your tongue.

She looks tired and you scoot further into the couch to let her collapse next to you.

"I thought about you every day," she murmurs, her words nearly incoherent.

It makes your heart beat faster than it should.

* * *

_Lie_

"What did you come to tell me?" Your arm carelessly drapes over her stomach, her hand coming up to entangle with yours.

"Jesse broke up with me."

Her hold on your hand falters and her voice, so quiet you barely can hear it, asks, "Why?"

"I'll tell you later."

"I'm sorry things didn't work out for you guys," she whispers, snuggling deeper into you, your heart clenching tightly. It's a lie, isn't it? Something people say but don't mean.

"So am I."

And it feels like a script, the two of you filling the roles given to you.

* * *

_Truth_

Over breakfast (eggs and bacon) you finally find your voice.

"He took me to a therapist."

There's an incredulity displayed on her expression that reassures you interestingly. "What?"

Between bites, you elaborate, "Jesse was convinced I was depressed so he took me to see a professional."

"Oh." She wipes her mouth quickly, "What happened?"

"I told her I thought there might be something wrong with me. Told her I wasn't happy and that I couldn't really remember the last time I actually was. And she told me that it was okay to be different, it didn't mean I was…a defect or something."

Her hand covers yours, her brow furrowing, and you wonder if she can really see you now.

"Therapist said that I didn't have to be happy all the time, but taking steps to open up, help other people understand me, could, in the long run, allow me to reach a sort of contentment. Nothing I didn't already know."

"And Jesse?"

"Long story short, he said in hindsight he realized he was with me because he wanted to fix me." There's more, but she doesn't need to hear it now. ("You're so much more damaged than I ever thought.")

* * *

_Lie_

"I'm glad you trust me enough to tell me these things," she has a faint trace of a smile lingering on her lips.

You don't know why, but you want to make this seem like it's less than it is, "Well, she told me I should come tell you this stuff in person. She said it would be a very good step. She said there was a difference between feeling unsure and being in denial."

But really, it was your idea, she only said fragments of what you've claimed.

* * *

_Truth_

"I understand why Jesse loved me, he wanted to be my knight in shining armor, just like in the movies. But I just need to know," the words hitch in your mouth before pouring out, "I just need to know why you loved me." (You need to know more than just that.)

Her eyes are a vibrant color, a strong periwinkle, and she leans forward, "I still do."

(You need to know how she can possibly still love you.)

"But why? I can't be your definition of happy. I can't be fixed. How can you be attracted to something broken? To someone who isn't really a complete person?" You should be crying, but you're not. There are hot tears somewhere inside, but nothing on the outside.

(You need to know how she can stand being in the dark with you.)

"Who says you _are_ those things?" Her hand reaches out to tuck the hair hanging in your face behind your ear, a sudden light flooding your vision.

(You need to know how you could possibly make this work.)

"Everyone."

(You need to know how you can love her.)

"Not me," she says. "I love you because you make me feel like I can't be with anyone else. I love you because you make me better."

(You need to know how her lips feel against yours.)

And your mouth crashes against hers sloppily, your noses mashing together none too gently. She touches you, bruising and heated, the only person to treat you as if you're not fragile, made of glass.

* * *

_Lie _

Your forward momentum topples the two of you to the ground, but you barely notice the impact.

"Are you okay?" Maybe she means more than just physically.

In any case you answer what you always do.

"Yes."

It's nowhere near the truth, but you can tell she knows it too.

* * *

_Truth_

The two of you lie on the hard linoleum, not really moving, but it's remarkably comfortable for you.

"So," you pause, "What now?"

"I love you," she reiterates, as if you need the reassurance (you might). "And because of that, I think anything's possible."

Do you love her? No. Yes? No? Yes. One of them. Is this denial or are you really just that emotionally stunted?

When you don't answer, she kisses you softly (and it is everything you could've hoped for) and whispers, "Why don't you stay the week?"

The three words you want to say refuse to express themselves, so you settle for baby steps.

"I'd like that."

You wonder if she understands what you really mean. You wonder if you're lying or not.

But maybe it's not something you need to figure out right now.

Baby steps.

* * *

_Epilogue_

There's a darkness covering your sight as you stare out the window. The skeletal thin birds flap from one tree to another and you feel immobile.

Her hand rests on your shoulder and the looming eclipse recedes. She smiles and you can't manage one back, but it's not something that's necessarily bad.

And in that moment you don't feel like there's anything to fix. That maybe you were whole all along.

And you're okay.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you to all those who read/reviewed/favorited/followed. Leave a review if it so suits you.  
**

**A few notes:**

**1. Special mention to Susan (who I'm including mostly to freak you out) for the idea of Truths vs Lies, and also to LCD (Desi, even) for the motivation to write something with a bit more complex characterization for Chloe and, of course, parenthesis use!**

**2. I'm also on tumblr: amiphobic . tumblr . com, if you have any questions or comments, feel free to drop by.**

**Cheers.**


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